


A Challenge for the Timekeeper

by Rosylocks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gen, Magic, john and dave are magically bound by blood, more character/additional/relationship tags will be added as the story progresses, rating and category prone to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosylocks/pseuds/Rosylocks
Summary: In which John is the heir to the Prospitian throne, and Dave is his personal knight. Fairytale-esque shenanigans ensue.





	A Challenge for the Timekeeper

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is my first story/fanfic. ever. please do excuse any inadequacies which you will probably find sprinkled throughout my writing!
> 
> i will probably not be updating very often since writing is hard, but we shall see. i do have a (slightly ridiculous) plan for how this little story will go, however, so stay tuned if you're intrigued! thanks for reading.
> 
> p.s. a lot of the work on this website has inspired me to write, so i give my sincerest thanks to all those people.
> 
> p.s.s. please do not hesitate to give me feedback or drop a comment. i really want to improve!

Your name is DAVE STRIDER and, for the fourth time this year, you are struggling to stay sane.

Or is it the fifth? No... _Sixth?_

God, you have no idea, and you don’t really care.

All throughout your life you’ve been blessed with an abundance of luck. You’ve got nice clothes, good friends, a knack for sword fighting and an impressively deep well of wealth. With but a single request, all the apple juice in the land could be yours, and your favourite chum just so happens to be one of the most powerful people in Prospit right now. You’re also lucky enough to have earned your place at his side, praise be to Skaia.

It’s ever since the dawn of winter your luck has slowly started to fizzle out, the once steady stream of fortune now a measly trickle.

The downward spiral first took the form of an unfortunate toe stubbing on your drawer. Next, it materialised as your first lost sparring match in months.

Then, His Royal Highness fell ill, and you felt the consequences like a knife in your gut. This time, it surfaced as _parties_. Lots of parties. Parties with guest lists so long they put even the queen of Derse’s balls to shame. You chalk it up to the good weather.

You sigh and covertly smooth out some wrinkles in your long, red imperial cloak. Gotta look good for the occasion, after all.

You are currently stood in the hulking beast of a dining hall, it nestled comfortably within the bowels of the Golden Palace, fulfilling your daily duties. Said duties involve the following: shadow the aforementioned favourite chum, and to be more specific, the raven-haired heir to the Prospitian throne.

Your calling? Protect this man’s life. Stave off all evil. Perhaps even smoothly offer advice occasionally, although that was a thing you kind of added to the job description yourself.

Yeah. The pressure of preserving the future of the realm sometimes gets to you.

You’d have it no other way, of course. You’d feel quite uncomfortable with a blade none other than your own at John’s side, but times are untroubled, and the kingdom is at peace; your weapon hasn’t left your sheath in months for a purpose save habitual sword practice with your brother, and this you’d have no other way, either.

John must have picked up on your incoherent mumbling, spawn of your barely restrained disinterest, as his head turns away from his food and up towards you. You’re stationed right beside his chair, and you’ve remained here for the past hour or two, stiff as a marble statue. Even though you’re plagued by aching appendages, you shift your receptive gaze over to him like clockwork as he twists in his chair. The exquisitely carved wood barely creaks in protest, and his lowered voice is almost completely suppressed by the idle chatter of the nobles.

“I’m sorry, Dave,” he apologises gently, and the raw sincerity his words are laced with makes your toes curl in your boots. Jeez.

You decide to respond by lifting a single blonde brow just above your tinted eyewear.

“Please, how many times do I have to remind you? I made a pledge to you in blood, and I’m bound to sacrifice my own fine ass for yours if need be.” You momentarily loosen your pale hand’s grasp on the hilt of your sword to gesture expressively in the direction of the dinner table. “You’ve got your own shit to deal with, Egbert, and admittedly I don’t know how you cope,” you note, a stifled laugh evident in your tone.

John frowns, his gaze cautiously flitting back to the nobles. “Mind your language,” he chastises, no doubt an attempt to be regal, but you notice the minute curl of his lips, a tell you deciphered a long time ago.

The way you confer with the heir is utterly unorthodox and quite brazen, so there’s no shortage of dirty looks from onlookers disapproving of your lack of decorum. In fact, if it weren’t for a request from John himself to have you enlisted as his personal knight, your demeanour would’ve certainly costed you: stuck as the bodyguard of one of these extravagant assholes, probably, or at least someone of relative importance gallivanting about Prospit.

You sigh again and withdraw your hand when the heir turns back to the rabble, your fingers curling around the familiar handle of your blade once more. You may not be of high caste, but you know how exhausting dealing with noble antics can be. During events like these, you’re hyper aware of how tiredness slowly begins to creep into John’s features, and you’re certain that your attitude towards him is refreshing, like being served a chilled drink on a hot day. You can tell from his relief whenever you both retire to his private chambers, it made obvious through the subtle slump of his shoulders.

Usually it would be the king sat in the chair which John currently inhabits, but since he’s out of commission, his responsibilities fell to his eldest son. They are no doubt responsible for the weariness you see blighting him, encumbering him with the force of an ever-tightening vice.

Ugh. You really don’t know how the heir copes. All this irritating yapping is making you drowsy, and your training is probably the only thing keeping you from grabbing some completely inappropriately timed shuteye right now. Fuck. Stay alert, Strider. A noble with a speech prepared could draw near at any moment.

With nothing else to do except fight the urge to nap, you lazily drag your crimson gaze across the scene before you. It’s not long until you observe that all but one of the high-backed seats are occupied. The one right across from John’s, specifically; the space reserved for the Seer.

That’s unusual, you muse to yourself absently as your brows knit together in a scowl. It’s definitely uncharacteristic of her to casually shirk these meetings, no matter how often she opines that putting off ‘pressing shenanigans’ in favour of food you just can’t say no to is a waste of time. You couldn’t agree more; formalities like these make you question who makes the decisions around here. Thank Skaia John’s the inheritor.

But seriously. How did you not notice this before?

It’s then you hear the unmistakable clink of silverware against china and the rustling of cloth, indicating a noble on the move. The noise effectively diverts your attention from the Seer’s absence, and upon seeing one of the guests ambling towards John, you grimace. Looks like _this_ part of the occasion has begun.

When the young man stops a short distance away, John quietly draws in a breath and stands, his silken blue attire rippling like the ocean as he moves. The stitching is immaculate and you swear when you look closely enough, you can see magic woven in amongst the threads, shimmering in the candlelight.

With hands neatly folded at his stomach, he greets the noble—dressed in a similarly, if not equally magnificent garb—in a velvety voice.

“Your Highness,” the noble returns, spine bending to allow a deep bow. The heir merely watches, but like before, you notice one of his tells: the slight stiffening of his spine at the gesture. “It is an honour, and so nice to finally see you again.”

John’s azure eyes swiftly scan the noble up and down and his expression morphs into one of slight confusion.

“Thank you, but… I don’t seem to recall who you are. My sincerest apologies.”

The noble rears up, unblemished hands linking behind his back, his movements fluid like a performer’s in a thoroughly rehearsed play. So incredibly suave, you scoff internally. It’s well disguised, but the act is easily dissected at the mercy of your eyes.

You know it’s all for show.

“Oh, no! We’ve never spoken directly, per se… I was being chaperoned by a friend of mine at last year’s summer procession, you see.” A lapse in the exchange is filled with the sound of the noble clearing his throat. “Your speech was most impressive, sire. You are an inspiration to all of Prospit.”

He then proceeds to trail off, words seemingly lodged in his throat, but he quickly recovers.

“Ah, where are my manners? I am Mituna, of the Captor family.”

John’s brows slope down in understanding, his chin bobbing up and down briskly. “Ah, yes. The Captors. How fares Derse?”

You decide to tune out of the conversation; honest to Skaia, you could not give any less damns about Dersian politics. Instead, you resolutely step over to John’s side and kindly urge the noble to move things along by glaring at him unerringly, your piercing stares just as sharp a weapon as the one providing a comforting presence at your hip.

You resist the urge to grin in satisfaction when a stutter breaks loose from Mituna’s throat and he babbles out a response at record speed, expression growing clouded with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

When he finishes up and finally launches into his proposal, you allow your attention to wander again, absently hoping that whatever he has to say won’t take up too much of John’s time. However, you are snapped out of your reverie when a strange sensation begins to fog your senses.

It doesn’t feel right.

The voices around you are reduced to a garbled murmur. The mouth-watering smell of Meenah’s cooking becomes a distorted odour of decay. Your keen eyes steam up from a strange heat pulsating in your core, everything you see deforming into a mess of horrifically blended colours.

A feeling like a million pins and needles pricking your skin then breaks out across your skin like a crashing wave, your desperation and suspicions getting washed away with it, and you jolt, barely managing to restrain an agitated hiss.

After what feels like an eternity, your vision stops swimming, and you manage to regain your balance before you go plummeting to the floor. You remember to breathe. An overbearing weight is lifted off your shoulders.

With barely seeing eyes, you catch a glimpse of Mituna’s retreating back just before he glides past the doors to the dining hall, disappearing into one of the castle’s many winding, lavish hallways.

What the _hell_ was that?

Your first instinct is to turn to John, and upon turning your head, you see the heir’s stooped visage; he is hunched over ever so slightly, mouth parted around a sharp exhale and eyes wide like an owl’s.

He looks like he’s been winded, and you feel like it, too.

“Your Highness?” you rasp, your mouth mysteriously dry. You know he’ll hear the silent question in your words.

John lifts a hand before responding, pressing his palm flush against his forehead. “Nausea,” he mutters. His eyes slide shut. “I’m all right.”

Your contract with the heir has always had curious effects on you. Ever since the day your blood was spilled in his honour, you’ve been able to feel what he feels, both mentally and physically, albeit to a lessened degree. You’d even go as far as to say that your will is an extension of his, his desires filling your mind like molasses, a compelling voice calling for you to make them a reality.

You’ve never felt anything like this, though, so you’re understandably sceptical of his claim to wellness. His vaguely quivering hand doesn’t really help his case, either, but before you can quiz him further, another noble seemingly materialises out of nowhere, stealing John’s attention from you.

You grit your teeth and skim your hands down your arms, an attempt to ward off the now mitigated tingling.

This is going to be a long night.


End file.
